


break

by skarlatha



Series: Conversations in Verse [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Daryl In Love, Jealousy, M/M, POV Daryl, Poetry, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 01:01:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6136042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarlatha/pseuds/skarlatha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl thinks about what's been going on with Rick. Spoilers for S6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	break

**Author's Note:**

> OH GOD A PROSE POEM. I haven't shared a poem with anybody in like ten years. Please be gentle. 
> 
>  
> 
> _drops poem and runs away_

you are beautiful and i do not notice beauty when it’s not framed in green, the sun shining through leaves and the pinestraw covering the forest floor, the songs of birds and the whisper of rabbit fur through the thickets, but somehow you are all of that plus grace, plus fire, plus death and life combined in one slender, lovely package, brown eyes like a hot summer spent in a hammock, and you move like a reaper on the wind, all hard steel and soft curves, full lips and a voice like the way honey smells in the spring, everything i wish i could be for him. 

i carry the lives of others on my back: the bow i took from a dead man, the leather vest my brother left at camp, the knife on my hip from the girl i let die. the eyes of a man who i thought saw something in me, who i would follow into battle again and again, give up more of myself to than anyone has ever asked for.

even my scars are not my own. they belong to those who put them there: my daddy behind most of them, merle behind a few, and him behind the rest, fire on my skin from his fingers as they trailed over me, checking for marks that would spell death, not knowing that he’ll be the death of me one way or another, heart or body or both. 

but now it’s your skin his fingers trace like braille, like he’s reading his future in your curves, and how can i blame him when i’m so broken, so fractured and rough, so far from what he sees when his eyes glaze over with want in the dark of night. 

when i was young my father taught me to hunt, and since then i have never been hungry. a little boy in the forest, searching for food and hoping for praise, for a place in the world. for a while i thought i had found it in the spaces between his ribs, in the place at his side that i fit into like the sliding of gears, bone of his bones and flesh of his flesh, created to serve and to follow and to burn.

we are both his, but he is only yours. nothing i’ve had has ever been mine.


End file.
